“You didn’t have to, but you did.”
Mylor smiled back. “I didn’t want you taking this place apart beam from rafter.”
Trent chuckled. “Sorry about that. Didn’t know what I was up against.”
“Sorry I didn’t recognize you right off. Should have.”
“’Tis nothing. Well, I shall be leaving.”
They rose and shook hands.
“Good luck,” Mylor said. “Of course, I’ll be starting an official investigation, the wheels of which will no doubt turn much too slowly for your satisfaction.”
“You’re right. But all I need is some proof, proof to take back and confront the Privy Council with. Or least firm knowledge of who the culprit was. I’ll try not to muddy the waters too much here. I just want my guy. Your guy I’ll leave to you.”
“I appreciate that.”
“And thanks again.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Mylor showed his guest out.
Passing the clerk’s desk, Trent dropped a gold coin into the mess of paperwork.
“Bob, take the rest of the day off. And a Merry Christmas to you.”
“Why, thank you,'s —” Bob did a take. “I beg your pardon?”
Trent stepped through the outer door into a long waiting room. Gone was the maze. A man and a woman were waiting, reading magazines. They looked up as he passed through.
“They let witches into the Guild?” Trent asked of her. She was quite pretty.
“Not all female magicians are witches,” she said pleasantly.
“They badgered us until we had to let them in,” the man complained.
“Albin, how would you like spending the rest of the day sunning yourself on a lily pad out in the goldfish pond?”
“Ree-deeep,” Albin said sheepishly and hid his face in the dog-eared pages of
Laughing, Trent went out the door.
Twenty-three
Mine
Gene stopped to peer around a corner. Nothing coming, so he waved Sativa on. She ran past him, turned the comer, and sprinted ten yards before ducking behind a pile of shipping containers. He came out from cover, dashed past her position and took a firing position between two refrigerator-size plastic crates. He watched Sativa advance down the tunnel at a crouching lope.
In this manner they kept moving through the underground warren, dodging unseen pursuers whose voices sometimes rose to a shout.
But it was not long before pursued met pursuer.
Gene turned the comer and surprised a man in combat fatigues and futuristic helmet bolting out of an ambush position, apparently unaware of Gene’s approach. Gene fired wildly, two shots, and ducked for cover.
The gun made a curious sound, rather like a crossbow, perhaps louder. But it was nothing like the ear- splitting crack of a conventional weapon.
He heard a groan and looked over the edge of the crate. The man was lying supine, his weapon out of reach.
Gene rose from cover as Sativa came jogging past. She went to the man and leaned over him.
The rebel solider turned his head and scanned her through red night-sight goggles.
She raised her weapon and aimed at his chest.
“Sativa, no!”
Gene’s shout was in vain. She fired, and the man died as Gene looked helplessly on.
She met his bewildered look with a face twisted by hatred and the immense effort of self-justification.
“You don’t understand. Members of my family have died in their terrorist attacks. My half-brother was tortured to death by these scum.”
He said nothing.
“Let’s try this direction. I don’t think —”
Shouts in the direction in which she pointed drove them back, but that route also had its disadvantages. More voices and more boots thumping against the level tunnel floor.
Fairly soon, no direction seemed likely to yield an escape route. Shots came out of the darkness at them.
They took up positions on opposite sides of the tunnel and alternated fire in both directions.
Gene wondered how many rounds his weapon had, trying to remember whether she had told him seven hundred or seventeen hundred — or was it just seventy?
He sprayed on full automatic for a while, then switched to single shot in case the lowest figure was correct. He had two extra clips in his knapsack but doubted he could reload under fire. It had been difficult enough in “training.”
Slugs chunked into the wall near him, not ricocheting even when hitting at a sharp angle. They packed a lot of wallop, these weapons did. The man Sativa had shot would probably have died in any case, possibly from shock alone. With that grim consolation. Gene assuaged his feeling of half-earned guilt.
But that wasn’t really bothering him. The prospect of imminent death was. They were trapped, and this was possibly the end. As he fired, he thought of giving up.
No. There had been a death; an execution, yet. As he saw it, that pretty much blew chances for a negotiated settlement or clemency on the captors’ part. Anyway, Sativa probably had not lied about these guys. They certainly weren’t pulling any punches.
Or were they? They were returning fire very conservatively.
Of course. They were afraid of setting off all this ammo.
Sativa wasn’t. She had turned into a human Gatling gun, spitting death in both directions.
How much longer before the nuke grenades went off?
Nuclear grenades. Really, now. He couldn’t conceive of it. It seemed like a joke.…
He watched in amazement as Sativa threw something in one direction, hauled back, and heaved something in the other.
Nuke grenades in the tunnel?
“Concussion squibs! Get down!”
Gene hunkered down just in time. Twin flashes dazzled him, and two bone-shaking concussions jarred him one way, then the other. He wound up on his buttocks, wedged in tight.
She yanked him out and pushed him forward.
“Get, get!”
He got, running through thin smoke and jumping over still bodies.
“
He collided with someone, rolled, and bounced to his feet again, racing on. He cracked his hip against something, almost tripped again, dimly saw a comer to turn and turned it.
